Flight
by redcherryamber
Summary: "You're tired," the President told Reeve. "Why don't you take a couple of days off and go somewhere."


**This story came out of a discussion thread started by CameoAmalthea on the Genesis Awards forums about the relative competence of the Shin-Ra executives. **

**I'd not thought about Reeve much - just kind of assumed he was an okay guy really - but Licoriceallsorts' comments got me thinking about his levels of culpability and the compromises he must have had to make. So - some of my thoughts turned into a story. The discussions over at the Genesis Awards are great for making a person think about this game! **

**Until this discussion I'd forgotten the President's chilling way of dealing with Reeve's protests about the proposed dropping of the plate: "You're tired. Why don't you take a couple of days off and go somewhere"...**

* * *

><p><strong>Flight<strong>

The shock of the sharp rap on his office door nearly makes Reeve drop the delicate object he is holding – an almost complete tiny mechanical bird of his own invention, made of the lightest metals he could find – each feather separately attached to cunningly articulated wings. He knows that it will fly – not like a glider, stiff wings outspread, but with the authentic motion of a real bird. The mechanics of flight have always fascinated him, and he wonders again at the human capacity to dream the impossible into reality. Hasn't he done it himself – helping to create a shining city of light where once there was only a cluster of benighted little villages? That's progress – civilization. Cheap energy is the future of humanity – he's certain of that, at least. With a sigh, Reeve sets down the model bird carefully on his desk, and calls, "Come in."

The Turk is one he recognises – Tseng's second – the one with red hair. The man's quick eyes go straight to the bird on the desktop. "That's cool," he says. "It flies?"

Reeve nods. "It flies. How can I help you?"

The Turk gives him an impatient look, as though he should know the answer. "Chopper's ready when you are."

"I didn't order a helicopter."

"No? Well – my orders are to take you to Costa. Apparently you're due two days' leave."

"Ah – I see." Reeve stands, pushes back his chair, and turns away for a moment. The Turk's name is Reno, he remembers, and from him the line of power is a short one – Tseng, the President.

_You're tired. Why don't you take a couple of days off and go somewhere._

"I'll… I'll meet you on the roof. I need to pack a few things."

Reno only nods, but there's that look Reeve's used to seeing – that flash of irritation. The president wants him gone: he should be ready to go.

x

In the helicopter they talk about flight. The Turk is happy with that – hell, he'll talk to just about _anyone_ on this topic – but Reeve senses a distance none-the-less.

Landed in Costa, Reno says, "Well – enjoy your – vacation," and there's close enough to a sneer in the curve of his lips that Reeve wonders for a moment whether he _knows_. Then the helicopter's lifting into the sky, Reeve, left behind on the tarmac, head down, shoulders hunched against the wind of the rotors. No – only the board members know. Just paranoia. Or guilt.

x

Reno doesn't know – but he can tell something's wrong, as surely as he can always sense the approach of a thunderstorm. Something big's about to go down, and as usual, he'll be caught up in it, and he's fine with that. Not that he's got a death wish or anything – he'll get out of the way sharp enough when the knives start flying if it's none of his business – he's not in this job for the glory. Yeah – but he'd rather be Reno and there when the shit hits the fan, than cast away like that poor sod who doesn't know whether he's coming or going until someone makes the choice for him.

x

When Reeve reaches President Shinra's villa, the caretaker is waiting to greet him. Professional and unobsequious, he takes Reeve's small suitcase to the bedroom and hands him a set of keys. "Anything I can order for you, Sir?" he asks. "The refrigerator and the drinks cabinet are stocked. Would you like anything else? Additional drinks, newspapers, company?"

"Com – oh – no! No – thank you. I'll be – fine."

"Yes, Sir. Enjoy your stay."

When the man's gone, Reeve surveys the empty villa. The television set in the corner of the lounge is a looming presence. The first thing Reeve does is to take the remote control from the coffee table and put it away in a drawer of the dresser.

The house is full of silence. Bright sunlight filters through latticework screens, and Reeve watches the dust spiralling slowly in the rays. He can hear the ocean sighing in the distance, and realises that he will not be able to face looking at it, knowing what's about to happen on the other side.

_I voiced my objections_, he thinks.

In his head, a voice that sounds a lot like Reno's says, _Yeah. You're a real _hero_. _

Reeve sits on the sagging couch, his fingers toying with the key of the liquor cabinet. But he's not going to drink. _Why?_ He mocks himself. _Too cowardly - avoidance? A little late for that. _

His life has been a series of compromises of increasingly dubious validity – but there is no compromise here and the President knows it and has given him an out. Why?

_Why send me away?_ Reeve wonders. _Why go to the trouble of ordering the helicopter? Was he really afraid that I'd act against him?_

But, in spite of everything, Reeve is too clear-sighted to believe that. No – the President isn't in the habit of overestimating people. He just doesn't like to take unnecessary risks.

_He needs me, to rebuild,_ Reeve realises. _That's all._ _Well – that's something I can do. I can make the new Sector Seven better than it ever was. _

Ideas flock to him quickly, beating at his mind with silvery wings. Light for the slums – he's invented a light-trap that will carry sunlight from above the mako-clouds down to the plate, and from there, via a series of pipes and mirrors, down to the shadowy regions below. And there's no reason in Gaia that the slums should stay as slums. He envisages a new town below the plate built on a spiralling ramp – nothing at the bottom, where the debris from the plate gathers, but utility infrastructure and perhaps car parks. No one will have to live in the dark any more. New houses on the ramp – schools, hospitals, perhaps even gardens. There's no reason why the people below the plate should endure inferior conditions to those above…

_The people below the plate._

But there's nothing he can do about that. He tells himself there was nothing he ever could have done, and tries to make himself believe it.

Reeve goes to the bedroom and opens his suitcase. He takes out what he needs – his technical drawing equipment and rolled sheets of tracing paper. Returning to the lounge, he tries to put his ideas onto paper - but it's impossible to concentrate.

_I can't rebuild_, he thinks. _Not while it's all still there. When will they do it?_

Is it soon? This afternoon? Tonight? Tomorrow?

He can see it so clearly in his mind. He was always cursed with an excellent imagination – and he knows better than anyone how the pillar will fall because he designed it. The hole will be a neat triangle; the sectors are almost entirely separate. A few pipes and reinforced concrete ties will leave a ragged fringe along the edges, but nothing more than that. If everything works according to the design, the entire plate will fall intact, onto –

Reeve returns the paper and drawing tools to the suitcase, and, instead, takes out his mechanical bird. It's a beautiful object – the tiny feathers are made of anodised titanium, iridescent peacock colours. Unpacking his watchmaker's tools, Reeve settles down to work on the toy.

Work absorbs him, and for a while he almost forgets. Once, during the afternoon, he checks his watch, and wonders, "Is it time?"

In Midgar Reno wipes his own blood out of his eyes and checks his watch. Looking up at the three Avalanche members who haven't quite managed to kill him, he says, "It's time."

Reeve works deep into the night, and when he finally goes to bed, sleep comes more easily than he thinks it should.

x

Morning's first question is _has it happened yet? _But he can't bring himself to turn on the television.

By noon the bird is complete.

The ringing of Reeve's PHS makes him jump. There's a message from someone in Public Safety – a helicopter will pick him up at three sharp.

Reeve takes the bird to the little wooden veranda behind the villa. The view is not of the ocean, but of low shrubs and cacti – the sandy soil and heath-land that stretches all the way to Corel. The sky is pure, cloudless blue.

Reeve's bird is remote controlled, and when it flies its motion is beautiful – so realistic that Reeve, flying it high above the villa, loses track of it for a moment and confuses it with a real bird that zigzags across its path. He brings the toy lower, watching sunlight glinting off its jewel-bright wings, and knows that in Midgar, the dust will still be settling.

Reeve plays with the bird for a while longer – time to kill before the helicopter arrives. He makes it circle in the sky one last time, then sends it away, flying higher and further westwards, until he can't see it any more. Hours and hours of work in the making of it – but he knows he won't be able to look at it again anyway. Out of range, its wing beats will suddenly falter, and it will fall earthwards, too far away for Reeve to see. He lets the remote control drop from his hands onto the dry sand, and turns back to the villa. It's time.

x

This time the helicopter is much smaller, and it's being flown by someone Reeve's never seen before – an army pilot who introduces himself as Lou.

The man is friendly, and keen to talk. "Boy, you picked a good time for a holiday. I suppose you heard? About Sector Seven?"

Reeve nods, wearily.

"Had a girlfriend from there once – but she moved to Junon. Lucky for her, right? All those people! They're saying it was Avalanche again."

Reeve makes a non-committal sound.

"So much dust!" Lou is saying. "And there's just this hole – neat as a slice of pizza – only with the edges – a bit like that stringy cheese –" He breaks off, embarrassed by his own simile. "Sorry. Gaia! All those people…"

Reeve thinks: _so it all worked. The plan. The design._ Suddenly resolute he says, "We'll rebuild it all. Better. It's what I do."

_But - all those people._

"That's the Shin-Ra spirit!" Lou says. "Won't let those terrorist bastards win, right?"

Reeve almost flinches at Shin-Ra's name, but he makes himself reply, "Right. We'll rebuild. We'll keep building."

As the helicopter approaches Midgar, Reeve turns his head to watch a flock of birds, below them, heading west. The temptation is to keep looking at the birds – but Reeve knows he's come to the end of something, and he can't look away any longer. He knows exactly what he's going to see – he's _always_ been cursed with a good imagination – but this time he makes himself look down, right into the heart of the devastation – because he bears responsibility and he sees, now, that he must never again be complicit in what he hates – the dropping of the plate – his own flight. Looking away might not be the same as giving permission – but it has the same effect.

As soon as he's back at his desk, Reeve begins to draw up the plans for a new Sector Seven. He has a clear vision now – and whether his ideas match with Shin-Ra's goals no longer seems such an important question as it used to. Reeve is growing sick of compromise, and he hopes that from somewhere he will find the courage to stand by his convictions. He has always dreamed of better futures and he's determined, now, that he will give his dreams substance - in brick and stone, glass and concrete, energy and steel.

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks for reading.<strong>


End file.
